


all this time, you can't get past her

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Avengers, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Coulson is a BAMF, Dating, F/F, Female Clint Barton, Female Phil Coulson, Femslash, Genderswap, Happy Ending, Hawkeye makes bad life choices, Infidelity, Pining, Second Chances, Swing Dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Barton waited until Fury was gone before she shifted into a more arrogant stance and grinned brightly at Philippa.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Philippa, huh? How’d you feel about me calling you Pippa?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“How do you feel about being tazed?” Philippa asked in return, just as mildly.</i>
</p><p>The life and times of Philippa Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all this time, you can't get past her

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was originally supposed to be a shortish fic with an unhappy ending, of about 4000 words. Ahahahaha. 16,000+ words and about three weeks later, I have this, which is both long, and has a happy ending.
> 
> The fic itself was inspired by the song [There's the Girl](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fwwYZ5QV5s) by Heart, which is lovely, but kinda sad. I recommend you listen to it before reading this fic.

**all this time, you can’t get past her ******

“Agent Coulson,” Fury intoned, “I would like you to meet our newest asset, Agent Clara Barton. Agent Barton, meet Agent Philippa Coulson.”

Agent Barton was a little taller than Philippa herself, with short dirty-blonde hair and a pair of big blue eyes that should have looked innocent, but for the expression of veiled devilry lurking at the back of them. Barton’s posture was relaxed and cocksure, and there was a deliberate roll to her hips when she moved.

“Agent Barton,” Philippa acknowledged, nodding at her.

“Wow,” said Barton. “So, when I heard them talking about Fury’s One Good Eye Agent Coulson, no one said you were a girl.”

“Woman,” Philippa corrected, a little sharply. “ ‘Girl’ implies that I’m immature, naïve, and in need of looking after. I’m none of the above.”

Barton’s eyes drifted over the way Philippa held herself, and lingered on the barely-detectable bulge in her tailoring where her firearm was concealed.

“Yeah,” Barton agreed, her smile crooked and slow. “I can see that.”

“Agent Coulson, I’ll leave it to you to get Agent Barton settled in,” said Fury.

Philippa didn’t grimace.

“Yes, sir,” she said instead.

Barton waited until Fury was gone before she shifted into a more arrogant stance and grinned brightly at Philippa.

“Philippa, huh? How’d you feel about me calling you Pippa?”

“How do you feel about being tazed?” Philippa asked in return, just as mildly.

Barton cracked up a little, and sent Philippa a leer.

“Sounds kinky.”

Philippa didn’t dignify that with a response.

* * *

In the months that followed, Clara Barton flirted with Philippa incessantly. She flirted with everyone, of course, but she seemed to put in a special effort where Philippa was concerned.

Philippa was amused and flattered in spite of herself. She’d never been particularly pretty – a pair of humorous eyes and a decent figure were all she really had going for her, looks-wise – and now that she was in her early forties, the amount of appreciative attention she usually received was nil. The fact that she was a senior agent of SHIELD who lived the job and had a reputation as a ball-buster didn’t help, of course, although Maria Hill had an even stronger reputation for ball-busting and that never seemed to hurt her romantic prospects any.

Mostly Philippa ignored the flirting and the juvenile innuendo. Some of the other agents couldn’t stand Barton’s irreverent, informal attitude, but Philippa secretly didn’t mind. Barton never crossed the line into outright insubordination, and her constant frank commentary made the various ops a little less tedious.

Fury noticed, and after the eighth handler Barton sent of spluttering about how they refused to work with someone so unprofessional, Philippa found herself assigned as Hawkeye’s sole handler.

She’d had more onerous and distasteful roles.

“I saw you’ve been assigned as my permanent handler,” Barton greeted Philippa. Philippa didn’t like being ambushed in her office first thing in the morning, but then Barton handed her a to-go cup of coffee, so Philippa decided not to object. “Should I apologise?”

“To Agent Surawski, perhaps,” Philippa suggested dryly. “He came back almost foaming at the mouth after your last op.”

Barton shrugged, and only looked a little abashed.

“If I see a better vantage point, I’m going to go there. Expecting me to stay in a bad spot is stupid.”

Privately Philippa agreed, which was part of the reason she found Barton more tolerable than most of the other agents did, but all she said was: “I don’t care if you decide to move to a better position, as long as you notify me that you intend to do so.”

“Fair enough, I guess.” Barton looked pleased. “You know, I like you, Coulson. You don’t have a stick up your ass and never give me dumb orders.”

“Is that what the coffee was for?” Philippa asked. She’d been wondering.

“Kind of? I was worried you might be kinda pissed about Fury making you my only handler, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to suck up a little,” Barton admitted.

“I’m touched.”

Barton grinned. It really was a charming expression, Philippa thought.

“Alright, boss, I’ll get out of your way, I know when I’m not wanted,” Barton said good-naturedly. “Although, since I’m here, you don’t know if Morse is seeing anyone, do you?”

“Robert?” Philippa blinked. Robert Morse was tall and blonde and very well-built, but he was also arrogant at times. Rather like Barton, actually. “I don’t think so.”

“Thanks.” Barton’s expression brightened, and turned mischievous. Philippa decided that she didn’t want to know, although she did feel slightly curious about how that might work out, if Morse was receptive. “Anyway, glad to know we’re on the same page.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Philippa murmured. Barton just laughed.

“Yeah, well, whatever. Later, Coulson.”

Philippa sipped her coffee, and made a note of the logo on the side of the to-go coffee cup. It was remarkably good coffee. Further points to Barton.

* * *

A month later, Philippa called Barton into her office.

“I heard you broke up with Agent Morse,” Philippa said neutrally. Pretty much all of SHIELD had heard about it, at this point; the breakup had been decidedly acrimonious.

“Hah,” Barton said darkly. “He’s a dick. You know?”

Philippa did not, in fact, know this, but knew that discretion was the better part of valour, and let it slide.

“Regardless, the way things are between you and Agent Morse is causing difficulties within SHIELD.”

Barton looked unexpectedly repentant.

“Sorry,” she said, somewhere between sheepish and rueful. “When I fuck up, I really fuck up.”

“I would appreciate it if you could bring yourself to behave professionally here he’s concerned,” said Philippa. “If you can at least pretend to be civil, that would be good. And before you ask, I will be having this conversation with Agent Morse, as well.”

“Yeah, okay.” Barton definitely looked rueful this time. “I’ll try and keep what an asshole he is to myself, and only call him a self-important motherfucker in my head.”

“Excellent,” Philippa replied sardonically. “You may go, Barton.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Barton stood, nodded in a friendly way, and left Philippa’s office. 

Philippa sent Agent Morse an email asking him to come to her office as soon as possible.

* * *

The thing was, Philippa _liked_ Barton, far more than she should. The specialist’s frank, engaging manner, puckish and just this side of insubordination, was surprisingly appealing. On top of that Barton possessed admirable skills, and her lithe frame, blonde hair, big blue eyes and expressive face were exactly the kind of physical traits that Philippa found attractive in women.

For some reason Barton had decided that she liked Philippa, too, and the archer took to seeking out her company in the cafeteria, or napping on the couch in Philippa’s office. Philippa probably should have kicked her out, re-asserted the boundaries between them, but she didn’t. Barton was good company, and if Philippa also found her nice to look at, well, no one had to know.

“Clara,” Barton corrected firmly one afternoon, when Philippa thanked her for the packet of mini-doughnuts Barton had just dumped on her desk.

“Excuse me?”

“Clara,” Barton repeated obstinately. “We’re not on a mission right now, and I’m off-duty. So you should call me Clara.”

Philippa considered this.

“Clara, then,” she acquiesced. She let a moment’s thoughtful silence slide by, before adding, “In that case, you should call me Phil.”

Clara grinned triumphantly, and assumed her usual relaxed position on Philippa’s couch.

Five or six minutes passed.

“Hey,” Clara suddenly announced, “did you hear that David and Suresh were caught screwing on Hill’s desk?”

Philippa paused, halfway through a terse email to the junior agent who had managed to destroy some important documents via an unfortunate confusion between the shredder and the fax machine (honestly, the new agents got more idiotic every year), and tried to decide on an appropriate description of how stupid and foolhardy the two agents had been.

“Gryffindors,” she settled on. Clara was surprised into a loud crack of laughter that gave way to her usual bubbly laugh.

“Harry Potter, really?” she asked, looking amused. “Do you usually mentally sort people into Hogwarts houses, ma’am?”

Philippa shrugged. It was a fairly pointless but entertaining exercise that passed the time in a dull meeting or on an uneventful mission.

“Sometimes.”

Clara snorted.

“What am I, then?”

“I always figured you were a reckless Gryffindor,” Philippa explained. Clara snorted again.

“Yeah, I guess that’s fair. What about you? Slytherin?”

“Hufflepuff, actually.” Philippa gave a faint smile. “Loyal and hard-working, with a tendency to blend into the background.”

Clara snickered.

“Uh-huh, I see it. What about Fury? Or Hill?”

“Fury is definitely a Slytherin,” Philippa said decisively. “Hill on the other hand – on the surface she appears to be Slytherin as well, but she’s actually a closeted Ravenclaw.”

Clara outright laughed at that one.

“And Sitwell?”

“Hufflepuff, as well,” Philippa responded. Clara shook her head, and started throwing out random names, wanting to hear Philippa’s opinion of their hypothetical house.

It was a little distracting, but Philippa smiled, and answered all the same. Her paperwork had been somewhat boring, and she could use a little distraction.

Philippa finished her paperwork an hour later with Clara still on her couch, chatting away. She’d barely noticed the time passing.

* * *

After that, Philippa and Clara more or less became friends. It wasn’t uncommon for them to grab each other coffee when the other was busy working, and sometimes, when it had been a long, exhausting day, the two of them ate together at the tiny Italian place a few block’s from SHIELD’s New York headquarters that Philippa liked.

Philippa didn’t really have much time for friendship outside SHIELD; for that matter, she didn’t have much time for friendship within SHIELD, either. Philippa was a senior agent and something of a perfectionist _and_ a workaholic, which was a bad combination when it came to having any chance of a social life.

Really, as friends went, besides Clara there was only Jasper Sitwell, who Philippa had known since she first joined SHIELD, although Fury fitted into a strange category of not-quite-friend that came from years of working with the man and Fury having even less of a personal life than Philippa did.

Her friendship with Clara was a relaxed sort of friendship, taking place when both of them happened to be in the same location and off-duty. It was perfect for the kind of unpredictable, busy lives the two of them led, Philippa thought.

And it was nice, to have a friend besides Sitwell, after all this time. 

* * *

It was eleven o’clock at night, and Philippa had just arrived back from running an op that involved infiltrating a crime syndicate and gathering certain pieces of information. She was tired and weary, and still had a certain amount to do before she could go home and sleep.

She’d just entered her office when someone cleared their throat behind her.

“Hey boss,” Clara said brightly, and handed Philippa a much needed coffee. Philippa blinked gratefully and downed it, wondering not for the first time if Clara was secretly living on base under everyone’s nose, because the agent shouldn’t still be here at this time of night. “So, I might have shot Liu in the ass. Just so you know.”

Philippa considered pretending that she hadn’t heard Clara’s statement, but abandoned the idea regretfully. 

“Dare I ask why?” she asked flatly.

“In my defense, he totally had it coming,” said Clara, still surprisingly cheerful. “He was comparing the assess of several female SHIELD agents, and I figured someone should teach him that there’s some things you should say about your colleagues and superior officers.”

“He was comparing asses,” Philippa said evenly. She no longer felt any desire to scold Clara for shooting a fellow agent. To tell the truth, she rather felt like doing the same herself.

“Uh-huh. He rated yours as a seven, by the way. Natasha got ten out of ten, and Hill’s ass was a nine, apparently.” Clara made a face. “I shot him before he got to me. So yeah, arrow to the ass.” She gave a satisfied smile.

Philippa would certainly be talking to Liu later about inappropriate behaviour, and probably scheduling a session of sexual harassment training. In the meantime, Clara really deserved a reprimand, no matter what the provocation.

“Good work, Barton,” she said instead, because honestly, SHIELD might have mostly forgotten the days a young, fresh Junior Agent Coulson was known for beating up those who so much as looked at her the wrong way, but Philippa had never quite grown out of being the young woman who’d punch someone sooner than let her suitability as a SHIELD agent be questioned.

Time had given her a professional veneer and her reputation for imperturbability, but beneath the suit and the nondescript manner Philippa was still at heart the same person she’d always been. She just did things differently now.

Clara grinned at the inappropriate praise.

“I thought you wouldn’t take that shit,” she remarked, settling on the couch as though she belonged there. “How much work do you have to do before you can go home? Because no offense, Phil, but you look beat.”

Philippa grimaced.

“There’s some paperwork I need to have filed by tomorrow morning,” she responded. “The rest of it can wait, but…” She let her mouth twist expressively.

“That sucks,” said Clara, with her usual delicacy – i.e., none at all.

“That’s my job,” Philippa corrected, without disagreeing.

“Well, your job sucks, then. I swear, ma’am, you spend so much time doing paperwork, it’s a wonder you get so much done.”

“I have mad skills,” Philippa returned, and Clara chuckled, settling further into the couch.

“I believe you.”

Philippa did her best to concentrate on what needed doing, but the next moment there was a gentle hand on her shoulder and a firm voice in her ear.

“Boss. Phil. _Phil_ ,” Clara was saying. Philippa blinked awake and stared blearily.

“What?”

“Jesus, you really _are_ tired, aren’t you?” Clara looked concerned. Philippa’s eyes started to close, and Clara shook her shoulder again. “Whoa, don’t go back to sleep! Look, you’re clearly not going to get this stuff done, and you’re probably too out of it to get yourself home, even.”

“Uh-huh,” said Philippa.

“So come on, let’s get your shoes and jacket off, okay?” Clara said patiently.

Philippa wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but when Clara helped her off with her jacket and shoes Philippa obediently went along with it.

“You have another set of clothes here somewhere?” Clara asked.

“Cupboard,” Philippa yawned. “Second shelf.”

Clara snorted.

“Right, of course you do. Come on.” She pulled Philippa to her feet and steered her to the couch. Philippa sank down on it gratefully. She had a nagging feeling that she wasn’t supposed to sleep yet, but was too tired to remember why. 

“Hey, look at me,” Clara was saying. Philippa blinked at her owlishly. “You can change into your spare set of clothes tomorrow and finish your paperwork, but right now you should sleep, okay? You’re wiped out.”

“Mmm,” Philippa agreed, eyes slipping shut.

The last thing she was aware of was someone covering her with her jacket as she drifted off.

* * *

Two years into their acquaintance, Philippa and Clara were sent on the mission to terminate the Black Widow. It would become a famous part of SHIELD’s history, but at the time, Philippa had no idea how far things were going to go off-plan.

The mission was relatively simple, as such things went: they had a probable location for the Black Widow, and all they needed to do was get Hawkeye into position, and take it from there. Philippa didn’t anticipate any problems.

They staked the site out well beforehand, and Clara found the best vantage point she could. The next few hours were spent waiting patiently – or not so patiently, in Clara’s case – for their target to show up.

As usual, Clara passed the time with unnecessary commentary that Philippa, at least, found entertaining.

At one point her commentary turned into a rambling story about talking to a bunch of men in a bar the last time she was in Russia, and their attempts to convince her to drink the local alcoholic brew of choice.

“They said it puts hair on your chest, and then they kept trying to convince me to drink it. I mean, I don’t know if Russian women are different, but there’s some places I just don’t want to grow hair, Coulson. I mean, can you imagine my boobs with hair? That would be weird. Plus it would be really awkward to shave. You know.”

“TMI, Barton,” Philippa said in response, and sent a stern look at Agent Woo, who was mentally picturing Clara with hairy breasts if his horrified expression was any indication. Woo flushed at the unspoken reprimand.

“Although seriously,” Clara went on, “if I sit here much longer it won’t be an issue, because I’m freezing my tits off up here.”

Philippa rolled her eyes as Agent Ferber choked at the vulgarity. Really, _Fury_ said worse things all the time, Ferber wasn’t going to get far if he was discomposed by language as mild as ‘tits.’ A significant number of SHIELD personnel were recruited from the military, and swore accordingly.

“Noted.”

There was silence on the comms for a while, before Clara spoke again, her voice cool and non-nonsense this time.

“Target sighted,” she said tersely, her attention focused on her objective.

“Report,” Philippa commanded.

There was a long silence, and then: “Listen, boss, I’m going to try something,” Clara said unexpectedly.

“ _What?_ ” Philippa heard her voice go sharp with consternation. “Barton, maintain your position! What’s going on? Has the situation changed?” There was no reply, and Philippa’s concern kicked up a notch. “Barton! Talk to me!” she yelled into her mouthpiece, but there was still no response.

“Her earpiece is still giving us the same location, ma’am,” said Woo. “But I don’t think Barton’s still there.”

Philippa swore loudly and volubly, with a fluency and crudity that left Ferber wide-eyed.

“Has anyone else got eyes on the target?” she demanded.

“Negative,” came the reply from the stationed agents. Philippa resisted the urge to swear further. “Alright. Anyone have eyes on Barton?”

More negatives.

Philippa focused on her breathing for a moment.

“I want Barton found,” she ordered. “Any sign of her or the target, report to me immediately. I want to know why this operation just went FUBAR.” And what the hell Clara is up to, Philippa added silently.

* * *

There was no sign of Clara anywhere, or the Black Widow for that matter, and Philippa eventually called off the op, but kept everyone available on location. The mission had crashed and burned, but if Clara turned up again – alive, or otherwise – Philippa wanted to make sure she and everyone else were equipped to deal with the situation, whatever it was.

She woke from a sound sleep, instantly alert, as someone cracked open her window. She relaxed as she recognised the sound of the booted feet that hit the floor in front of the window, but tensed again as a lighter, unfamiliar set of footsteps joined the first ones, already reaching for the handgun by her bed. By the time Clara came into view, a striking red-headed woman in tow, Philippa was standing with her gun already aimed.

Clara swallowed, and visibly braced herself.

“I can explain,” said Clara.

“Please do,” said Philippa, her gaze all for the pretty little redhead in the grey hooded sweatshirt standing next to Clara. Philippa was intimately familiar with the Black Widow’s file, and knew exactly who – and what – she was looking at. 

The Black Widow gazed back with an impassive expression, her eyes calculating, and Philippa knew that if the Black Widow was a threat – if she wasn’t here with peaceful intentions – then Philippa didn’t stand a chance against her, for all her years as an agent with SHIELD.

“She wants to come in, boss,” Clara said quickly. “She’s willing to join SHIELD and give us any information we want.”

“Why?” Philippa asked, her eyes still trained on the assassin next to Clara.

“I am tired of this,” said the Black Widow. There was no sound of her native Russian accent, only round American tones. “This life is all I have known since I was a child. I want to stop, and I don’t know how. There is red in my ledger. I want to erase it.” 

“Boss,” Clara added softly, “she knew where I was. She walked into my sights anyway. She means it.” She met Philippa’s eyes, her own beseeching. “Please, ma’am, just trust me on this one. How many other people have SHIELD recruited who were basically in the same boat, me included? Everything I’ve got says she’s telling the truth, and all she needs is a chance to prove it. _Please._ ”

Philippa knew without a doubt that if she said no – if she ensured that the original mission objectives were met – then it would damage her relationship with Clara irreparably. All the trust currently being aimed in her direction would be lost.

Philippa stared into beseeching blue eyes, and found she couldn’t say no.

“Shit!” she said with feeling. “You’d better be making the right call, Barton,” she added, and pulled out her phone to dial Fury. He was going to hit the roof, and Philippa couldn’t blame him. Weathering this one was not going to be fun. But if Clara was sure – and Philippa had never known her to make a bad call on an op before, despite the mess that was her personal life – Philippa was willing to back her on it even if it meant sticking her own neck out.

As Fury barked “ _what?_ ” in Philippa’s ear, and Philippa braced herself to explain, she couldn’t look away from the gratitude and wonder in Clara’s eyes.

She was well and truly screwed, she thought grimly. She just hoped the Black Widow didn’t decide to kill them all. 

* * *

As it turned out, the Black Widow – Natasha Romanov – ended up becoming one of SHIELD’s most valuable and trusted operatives.

Philippa didn’t expected to become as close to Natasha as she did. Natasha and Clara had inextricably bonded over Natasha’s unorthodox recruitment, of course, but somehow Philippa’s relationship with Natasha became not just one of asset and hander, but of friends.

Part of it was that for all their differences in personality, Philippa and Natasha had similar attitudes towards a lot of things, even if their methods were different. Natasha also seemed to appreciate that for all that Philippa was disciplined, unshakeable and had never met a difficult situation she hadn’t managed to wrangle somehow, there was a kindness at the centre of her nature that none of Philippa’s strength or assertiveness had ever diminished. Philippa supposed that it was rare, in their line of work, to find someone tough and competent who still had room left for kindness.

Philippa herself appreciated Natasha’s determination, straightforward manner, sense of humour, and the way she rolled with every contingency and never let anyone give her shit. It was one of SHIELD’s best-kept secrets that the two of them sometimes went out for long, laid-back lunches or went shopping together, critiquing fashion and quietly bitching about their work. Whenever they went out for one of their lunches Natasha drank down vodka cocktails like they were lemonade, and sometimes after a lot of them she called Phillippa ‘kitten’ in Russian.

Sometimes they talked about Clara.

“You should ask her to juggle sometime,” Natasha told Philippa over a Cosmopolitan. She’d drunk two Fuzzy Navels and a Tequila Sunrise already, and had reached her slightly chatty stage. “I watched her juggle eight knives last week.”

“Really?” Philippa asked.

“ _Da_. Then Richards made a crack about clowns, and Clara pinned him to the wall with all of them. It was beautiful.”

That explained why Richards had been more subdued this week, Philippa thought.

“Do you have any unexpected talents?” she asked Natasha.

Natasha was quiet for a moment.

“When I was a little girl,” Natasha said eventually, “I spent some time in a ballet school. It was a cover, but… I enjoyed it a great deal. People at SHIELD do not expect me to like anything feminine unless I can kill somebody with it, but there are some things that I like because they are not used for killing.”

Philippa understood perfectly. No one at SHIELD with any sense would suggest that women made less competent operatives than men, but most of the time, working at SHIELD meant being an agent first, a woman second. One of the things that Philippa admired about Pepper Potts was that she managed to be relentlessly capable and ruthlessly efficient at what she did without ever losing an ounce of femininity. Everything Stark had done as CEO, Pepper did twice as well in high heels and a calm, Tea Rose-pink smile. Philippa could never afford to be anything other than the bland, impersonal Suit.

She sipped at her scotch and leaned forward a little.

“I like swing dance,” she confessed. “The Lindy Hop, the Balboa, the Foxtrot, the Jive. Big band music. All in skirts and stockings and with my hair in victory rolls.” She smiled, a little self-consciously. “When I was still in college, I made it through to the state championship finals a couple of years running.”

“You can Lindy Hop?” Natasha looked mildly impressed. Philippa’s mouth quirked wryly.

“I’m a little too old for that these days. Although I can still Jive and Foxtrot with the best of them.”

“Sometime, you must show me,” Natasha said firmly, which was how two weeks later, Philippa found herself shutting the door to her office at eleven o’clock at night while Natasha plugged a small CD player into the power socket next to Philippa’s desk.

“This is unprofessional,” Philippa said. She wasn’t quite sure how Natasha had talked her into this, but she’d been away for the last four days on a particularly gruelling op and somehow, Philippa hadn’t found the strength to say no.

“Shut up and dance,” said Natasha, putting a CD on. Philippa gave into the inevitable and taking off her jacket, hung it over her chair before taking off her sensible shoes and moving into the open space in front of her desk.

_ Roll the Boogie  _ by Lavay Smith & Her Red Hot Skillet Lickers started up, and Philippa wondered how Natasha knew what she’d been listening to lately. 

In Philippa’s opinion swing dancing solo wasn’t as impressive as what could be done with an excellent partner, but she could still put on a good show.

When she glanced up, Natasha was grinning the understated little grin that meant she was genuinely enjoying herself. Philippa smiled back, and kept dancing. 

Halfway through the song, Philippa heard the creak of metal above her that signified that the air vent cover was being removed. She glanced up to see Clara staring with wide eyes from the air ducts, and quirked a grin at her before twirling away.

When _Roll the Boogie_ ended, Philippa paused and held out a hand to Natasha, grinning.

“You swing dance?” she offered, as _Tain’t What You Do_ by Jimmie Lunceford and his Orchestra began playing.

“A little,” Natasha conceded warily. Philippa raised her eyebrows, and Natasha reluctantly took Philippa’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled forward. Sure enough, Natasha didn’t seem to know much, but she knew enough to get by, and her natural grace, sense of rhythm, and observant eyes meant that as long as Philippa kept it simple, Natasha was able to keep up.

When the song finished, the two of them broke apart, Philippa laughing a little, while Natasha’s tiny grin was back.

Philippa tilted her head back to look at Clara, who still looked faintly surprised, but impressed as well.

“Wow, boss. Is this what you normally do after we all go home? Play big bang music and cut a rug?”

Philippa laughed.

“Not usually. Natasha talked me into it.” She slipped her shoes back on, and shrugged on her jacket. 

She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. 

“But the entertainment is over for tonight, agents, so if the two of you will leave my office…?”

Natasha snorted, but collected the CD player and headed for the door.

“You dance well,” she threw over her shoulder, and shut the door behind her.

Philippa raised her eyebrows at Clara pointedly.

“Barton.”

Clara just grinned at her.

“Yeah, yeah, boss, I’m going. Seriously, though, that was kinda impressive. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cut loose, before.”

“I have a private life just like everyone else, Clara,” Philippa chided, but her tone came out far milder than her words. “It just happens to stay exactly that, private. Make sure you put the vent cover back in place before you go.”

“Of course, ma’am. Have a nice night.”

“You too, Clara.”

Philippa left her office feeling more relaxed than she had in a while. She really should try and find the time to take up dancing again, even if it was infrequently and irregularly. She’d forgotten how much it lifted her mood.

* * *

One of the few ways in which Philippa found Clara genuinely annoying was her attitude towards paperwork. She had a tendency to make errors in filling out forms, which Philippa could have tolerated as they were unintentional, except that it wasn’t uncommon for Clara to deliberately hand in forms and reports that were grossly inadequate, or simply fail to hand them in at all.

Clara’s latest filed report said simply, _Climbed a tree, waited three hours, shot the bad guy, left._

It would have been amusing if Clara didn’t regularly pull this kind of stunt. Instead, Philippa mostly found it irritating.

When Philippa located her, Clara was at the shooting range, practicing with her bow.

The targets, Philippa noted, were dotted with holes that formed the shape of various emoticons.

Philippa stood and waited for the archer to notice her. After a moment Clara lowered the bow and turned to face Philippa.

“Ma’am,” she acknowledged.

“Barton,” Philippa said evenly. “Would you care to explain this?” She held up the single-page field report with its one line of text.

Clara’s face twitched, somewhere between guilt and mirth.

“Uh, I was feeling pretty tired, boss,” she offered sheepishly.

“Do it again,” said Philippa sternly. “Properly, this time. I want it on my desk by five.”

Clara grimaced, but nodded.

“Okay, boss.” As Philippa turned to leave, Clara said, “Hey, Phil?” Her voice was oddly tentative. Philippa turned back.

Clara looked oddly nervous, rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand.

“Uh, so, there’s a nice little Vietnamese place I go to, sometimes,” she began awkwardly, and flushed. “I was wondering if maybe, you’d like to go there for dinner sometime. As a date,” Clara finished in a rush.

It wasn’t often that something truly took Philippa by surprise, but she stared at Clara, utterly floored.

She’d been attracted to Clara practically since they met and had held personal feelings for her for a couple of years, and the two of them had become reasonably good friends, but she’d never had the slightest inkling that Clara might return her affections. She was completely gobsmacked. 

Clara shifted, looking more and more uncomfortable the longer Philippa stood silently staring. Philippa realised that she hadn’t actually answered, and tried ti reboot her brain.

“I… really?” was _not_ what she intended o say, but came out of her mouth anyway. She quickly clarified, “I mean… people don’t usually ask me out, to be honest.”

Clara looked genuinely surprised by this, but relaxed as she realised that Philippa’s silence had been honestly stunned.

“Yeah, really,” she said, smiling a little shyly. “Does that mean you–”

“Oh. Yes. OF course,” Philippa responded hastily, actually flushing a little. “I’d like that.”

Clara smiled brilliantly, and Philippa’s breath caught.

“Awesome. Are you free tomorrow night?” Clara asked eagerly.

“Yes.” Philippa had planned on dealing with some of the accrued field reports currently piled on her desk, but those could wait, she thought.

“Okay, um, does seven o’clock sound alright?” Philippa nodded confirmation, and Clara rattled off the address for her. “Are you happy to meet there? They’re a little family-run place and don’t do reservations, but I can usually wrangle a table.”

“That sounds fine,” Philippa replied. Clara looked very pleased.

“Okay, then. I guess, uh, if I don’t see you before then… tomorrow, at seven.”

“It’s a date.” Philippa couldn’t help her own wide, pleased smile.

The two of them stood smiling at each other before Philippa cleared her throat.

“Well… I should get back to work.”

“Right.” Clara turned back to face the targets again, raising her bow as Philippa left. As she walked back to her office Philippa knew that her smile was ridiculous, but she didn’t care in the least.

* * *

When Philippa got home that evening, she tried to decide what she would wear on her date the following night.

Philippa frowned as she looked through her wardrobe for something appropriate. Most of her clothes were variations on her tailored suit plus dress shirt combo, and while Philippa looked well enough in them – she carefully chose all her suits to be as flattering as possible while maintaining freedom of movement – they were what Clara was used to seeing, and Philippa wanted to wear something different for their date.

She pushed aside the cocktail dresses on their hangers; while attractive, they were far too formal to wear to a simple casual restaurant. The problem was, Philippa rarely went anywhere where casual dress was acceptable, and her wardrobe reflected that fact. Eventually, however, she found a black pencil skirt that showed off her figure and a blue satin blouse that she knew matched her eyes, and pulled out her favourite pair of heels to go with them.

The evening of their date Philippa took more time than usual getting ready, carefully doing her hair and makeup. Philippa always looked best with her hair pulled back away from her face, but today she pulled it loosely back in an intricate twist instead of the usual firm bun. She finished with a bright red lipstick in a shade she reserved for dressy occasions, and a light spray of Chanel Eau Premiere.

Looking at her reflection in the mirror, Philippa decided that she cleaned up nicely.

* * *

Philippa arrived at the restaurant a little early, and waited outside for Clara.

Clara, when she arrived, was wearing a short-sleeved, lilac-coloured button down shirt and dark blue jeans. Her expression when she saw Philippa in the pencil skirt, blue satin blouse and black leather heels was very flattering to Philippa’s underdeveloped sense of vanity.

“Wow,” said Clara, smiling a little bashfully. “You look nice. I feel underdressed all of a sudden.”

“You look fine,” said Philippa. Very fine, she added in her head. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a good fifteen years older than you. Dressing for a date takes considerably more effort.”

_ ‘And I was never as pretty as you to begin with,’  _ Philippa didn’t add.

Feeling unusually self-conscious, she and Clara found a free table, and sat.

It had been a long time since Philippa had been on a proper date. She licked her lips, her mouth dry, and looked at the menu.

“Come here often?” she asked Clara, and was rewarded with a snort of laughter.

Philippa smiled as the mild joke diffused some of the nervous tension.

“I guess,” Clara admitted. “There was, uh, a thing? Like, the folks who own the place, I stopped their daughter from being raped and walked her home – they live above the restaurant – and they insisted on feeding me. They do good food, so I came back the next time I wanted to grab a bite to eat. I’m a regular customer, pretty much. They’re good people.”

Philippa nodded slowly, unsure what to say in response to this confidence. She looked at her menu. A description was listed underneath the name of each dish, and when the waitress came around to take their order, Philippa chose the sugar cane prawn.

“Hey, Anh,” Clara greeted the waitress. “I’ll have the chicken _xao cai_ , and a bottle of coke, thanks.”

Anh’s eyes darted between Clara and Philippa, and her knowing grin made Clara blush slightly.

“Would you like a candle for the table?” the girl asked cheerfully. “It will be more romantic.”

“Shut up,” Clara grumbled, blushing further. “Go away, Anh.” Laughing, the waitress did so.

Philippa found herself watching with an amused smile.

“That was the damsel in distress, I assume.”

“Yeah,” Clara sighed. “She’s the youngest – all their other kids are grown up and married and stuff except for her brother, he’s at college. She likes to tease me.”

The waitress returned with Clara’s bottle of Coca-Cola, and – Philippa couldn’t help grinning – a small tealight candle in an open glass jar.

Clara glared faintly as Philippa started snickering.

“I guess it does look a little more romantic,” said Philippa. The effect was ruined by her snickers.

“Screw you, Phil,” Clara groaned half-heartedly.

There were a lot of things Philippa didn’t normally say, a lot of occasions when she held her tongue for reasons of professionalism or appropriateness. But right now, there was no reason to.

“Eventually,” she responded, with a coy smile and a playful tilt to her head.

Clara’s breath caught and her eyes widened, even as they darkened at the promise.

“Yeah?” Clara’s voice came out a little husky. Philippa gave her a prim little smile.

“If you play your cards right, I’m sure.”

Clara swallowed visibly.

“So,” Philippa said as though nothing had happened, “Natasha once told me you juggle.”

Clara blinked a couple of times. Philippa didn’t hide her smirk.

“You’re evil,” Clara accused. “Yeah, okay, I can juggle. It was one of those things I learnt in the circus. Before I was The Amazing Hawkeye, I was the knife-thrower’s assistant, you know? The girl who stands and smiles while he throws knives at the apple on her head kind of thing. First time we ever practiced, I puked straight afterwards, I was that terrified.”

“How old were you?”

Clara shrugged.

“Ten?” she guessed.

Philippa frowned.

“Hey, don’t worry, he was a pro, seriously,” Clara assured her, correctly interpreting her expression. “And after a while he started teaching me. Gave me a throwing knife of my very own,” she added fondly. “The weight was a bit off, so he couldn’t use it in the show, but it was okay for practicing, even if it meant I had to stop compensating for the way it threw when I got some knives of my own.”

Their waitress brought their meals out then, and there was a lull in the conversation as Philippa and Clara both began to eat. Philippa’s dish was a very nice vermicelli noodle salad topped with slices of minced prawn on sugarcane skewers. Clara’s meal looked to be a chicken and vegetable stir fry on a bed of rice, and the sauce smelled delicious.

Clara dug in with her usual enthusiasm, and Philippa followed suit.

Dessert was sago pudding with coconut cream, and like Philippa’s main meal, it was a set of flavours she was unused to but which were not unpleasant.

“So,” said Philippa, “this has been nice.” By this point her calf was up against Clara’s beneath the table, and she and Clara were smiling at one another rather a lot.

“You know, I was sure I was going to mess this up,” Clara blurted. “But you’re right, it’s has been nice.” Her shy grin made Philippa want to kiss her, desperately.

She cleared her throat.

“Would you like to come back to my place for a drink? I have wine, whiskey, or a couple different liqueurs, if you want to try them.”

Clara licked her lips, apparently unconsciously. Philippa found herself watching the movement.

“I’d like that,” Clara said quietly. “You want to pay the bill and get out of here?”

“That sounds like a plan,” Philippa confirmed, and the two of them got to their feet.

* * *

When Philippa finally kissed Clara, her mouth tasted of the rich raspberry taste of Chombord liqueur, and her hands on Philippa’s waist were firm and warm. It was wonderful.

What followed the kiss was even better.

* * *

They’d been dating a few weeks when Clara walked into Philippa’s office.

“I bought you a cactus,” Clara announced.

She had. It was in a blue pot with Captain America’s shield painted on it.

Philippa raised an eyebrow.

“A cactus?”

“Yeah.” Clara put it down on Philippa’s desk. One tiny red flower bloomed on its bristly dull-green surface. “It reminded me of you – see, because it’s hardy and a survivor and anything that tries to fuck with it is going to get a nasty surprise.”

“So what you’re saying is, I remind you of a prickly and ugly plant,” Philippa extrapolated.

“It sounded better in my head,” Clara admitted. “Before you phrased it like that.”

“Remind me to buy you something with flowers that are flamboyantly large and obnoxiously purple,” Philippa suggested. “How large are hibiscus? Or maybe a clematis.”

“I find your knowledge of flowers impressive and a little terrifying,” said Clara, who could just about guess the difference between actual flowers and weeds if she tried really hard. “But we’re good about the cactus, right? You get what I was trying to say?” She looked slightly worried.

“We’re good,” Philippa agreed, allowing her features to relax into a fond expression. “I understood what you were getting at, even if you could have expressed yourself in a more flattering way.”

“Good.” Clara tucked her hair behind one ear and gave Philippa a rare shy smile. “Are you free for dinner tonight? Because there’s a good Thai place a couple blocks from my apartment, if you want to try it.”

“Sure,” Philippa responded, smiling back. She had some paperwork she needed to get done before she left for the evening, but the rest of it could wait. “Leave about six?”

“Sounds good to me,” Clara confirmed happily. “See you then, boss.” She leant forward across the desk, and Philippa tilted her head to accept the (mostly) chaste kiss Clara pressed on her. Clara straightened and gave Philippa a flash of her usual smile, and left Philippa’s office with the usual cocky sway to her hips.

Philippa looked at the cactus. She had to admit, it was a plant you wouldn’t want to mess with. And the single flower was rather pretty.

* * *

Three days later when Clara came back to her place for takeout and trashy TV, Philippa presented her with a small dragon heart geranium in a violently purple pot, with a bow and arrow painted on it. Clara burst out laughing, but promised to look after her ‘spirit flower,’ as she called it.

“Hey, what do you think Natasha’s flower would be?” Clara mused. “A venus flytrap?”

“Oleander or mala mujer,” Philippa suggested. Clara looked blank. “You see it in Mexico sometimes. It has these delicate little white flowers, but the thorns can be used to make barbed wire and the sap is caustic.”

“And oleander?”

“Deadly if you eat any of it. Every now and again someone’s arrested for using it to murder someone. The flowers are lovely, though. Classy-looking.”

“Definitely Natasha,” Clara agreed solemnly. She left the geranium on the kitchen table and joined Philippa on the couch, sprawling inelegantly as Philippa curled into her side, and rested her head on Clara’s shoulder and against the curve of her neck. Philippa fiddled with the remote until she found the channel with _16 and Pregnant._

“Seriously?” Clara asked, although she didn’t move.

“Shut up. I enjoy it,” Philippa replied. The two of them watched in silence for a while before Philippa asked, “I really remind you of a cactus?”

With Philippa’s head where it was Clara couldn’t turn her own head to meet Philippa’s eyes, but Philippa sensed her incredulous, vaguely exasperated look.

“You’re actually freaking out about the cactus, aren’t you.”

“Cacti aren’t exactly approachable.”

“Phil.” Clara bumped her head gently against Philippa’s. “You know what I see? I see a woman who’s smart, in control of herself and the situations around her, doesn’t take anyone’s shit and isn’t going to let anything chew her up and spit her out, doing work that sends most of our interns away needing years of therapy. And you know what I think? _Awesome._ ”

“At least someone does,” Philippa sighed.

“Yeah, and I’m like a walking disaster, but you like me anyway,” Clara pointed out good-naturedly, elbowing her in the side.

“That’s true,” Philippa agreed.

“I know you have this weird idea that you aren’t a catch,” Clara went on.

“Because I’m not.”

“–but you have beautiful eyes and a great smile, and the first time I heard you laugh all I wanted was to hear you do it again. And our first date? In case you couldn’t tell, one look at you practically knocked me sideways. All that _and_ you’re kick-ass. Trust me, I’m lucky to have you.”

Philippa had never heard anyone speak like that about her before, but Clara’s voice was sincere, and well, she was here, wasn’t she? Cuddling on the couch and watching trashy TV with Philippa, and that on its own said something.

So instead of arguing further, she let herself relax, watching TV and relishing the feel of Clara’s body against hers.

* * *

Philippa slowly got used to having Clara in her life all of the time, whether it was on missions, in her office, or in her apartment. She became accustomed to coming home at night to find Clara watching Doctor Who reruns in her living room, to going to sleep with Clara’s arm thrown loosely around her waist. Little text messages became a routine part of Philippa’s day, and on those occasions when she or Clara were away on an op without the other her phone would sing out, ‘ _hold on tight, you know she’s a little bit dangerous!’_ during the absentee’s down time to indicate that Clara was calling.

It was wonderful. Philippa hadn’t really had a serious relationship since she’d joined SHIELD. She had been alone for such a long time, and had resigned herself to spending the rest of her life that way. But now – everything was different, in all the ways Philippa would never take for granted no matter how commonplace they became.

* * *

They’d been dating for three months when Clara and Philippa were sent on separate missions on the opposite side of the country. Clara’s was short; Philippa’s ended up running for three weeks, as the situation there proved to be more complicated than initially expected. It wasn’t unusual: sometimes information came to light that during the course of the mission that they couldn’t have known otherwise.

It was a relief for Philippa to get back. She’d missed Clara a lot more than she thought she would, but somehow her girlfriend had insinuated herself so thoroughly into Philippa’s life that Philippa keenly felt her absence.

The first thing she did when she got back after reporting in was go looking for Clara. Sitwell said the last he heard, she’d gone off to have a sparring session with Agent Jones, about forty-five minutes ago.

Looking forward to seeing Clara again, Philippa went in search of her partner.

She heard the laughter before she entered the training room: a low male laugh, and a familiar bubbling laugh that she recognised instantly.

Philippa paused, her mind presenting her with a picture of what was likely happening on the other side of the door. But she didn’t know for certain, so she took hold of the door handle and turned it, bracing herself for what she was about to see, in case her instincts were correct.

The door swung open, and Philippa was met with the sight of Agent Jones leaning back slightly to counterbalance the weight of the woman with her legs wrapped around him. They were both fully-clothed, which was at least some small comfort. Clara had her arms curled around Jones’ neck, one hand in his hair, and was laughing softly into his mouth as Jones tried to shift Clara’s weight into a slightly more comfortable position at his waist.

It was Jones who sensed Philippa’s gaze first. He suddenly glanced over to where Philippa stood framed in the doorway, and his eyes widened.

“Agent Coulson!” He almost dropped Clara in his consternation.

At the sound of Philippa’s name Clara’s head snapped round, her mouth falling into an ‘O’ of shock as she stared at Philippa with eyes that turned enormous with horror and swift terror.

Philippa left.

She heard a loud “ _shit!_ ” behind her, and then hasty footsteps.

“Coulson! Phil!” Clara called out, but Philippa kept walking. Her heartbeat was thudding in her eyes, but she felt strangely calm. “Stop! Please, just stop!”

It only took a few seconds for Clara to catch up to her.

“Phil, please, it didn’t mean anything, I swear! It was just fooling around! Wait a second!”

Philippa stopped and turned back so abruptly that Clara almost ran into her.

“It means a lot to me,” she said quietly, her tone unequivocal, and Clara stared at her in mute dismay, the realisation dawning in her eyes that Philippa wasn’t about to let this slide, no matter what Clara said to appease her.

Philippa left Clara standing alone in the hallway without looking back. This time, Clara didn’t try to follow her.

Philippa’s eyes stung, but she refused to let the tears fall. Her heart felt heavy in her chest.

She strode into her office and shut the door and locked it. As she stood there she thought of the way Clara had looked, smiling into Jones’ eyes, and she sucked in a harsh breath that turned into a sob halfway through, and a moment later she was leaning against her door and crying so hard that her entire body shook with the force of her misery.

* * *

“I am sorry, _katyonak_ ,” Natasha told her later, with the cool acknowledgement of misfortune that was the closest Natasha ever came to sympathy. “I would have thought that Clara would have had more sense, when it came to you.”

“Yeah, well.” Philippa’s wan smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Her relationship pattern is long-established, so I really shouldn’t have been surprised. Besides, don’t you always say that love is for children?”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, “but respect and trust are not.”

And that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it.

Philippa’s smile this time was bitter, but real.

“I’m a woman getting close to fifty with nothing to recommend me but my reputation as an agent, which means absolutely nothing when it comes to relationships. I’m not pretty, I wear nothing but pant suits, and I spend a distressingly large amount of my time threatening to taze or shoot people. Why should I have expected Clara to give me a second look, really?”

To Philippa’s surprise, Natasha leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

“You are a sweetheart,” Natasha said, quietly but firmly, “and the best person I know. Clara is a fool.”

“Maybe,” said Philippa tiredly, bemused at Natasha’s uncharacteristic demonstration but pathetically grateful for the sign of affection. “That doesn’t make me any less of one.”

Natasha tactfully kept silent, and ordered Philippa another drink.

* * *

Life was quieter and colder without Clara in it.

Philippa had lived her life at SHIELD for years, and was well-familiar with the long hours, the way things alternated between hair-raising excitement and utter boredom, the fact that she couldn’t talk to anybody about what she did and never had time to see anyone anyway, and always had to keep up the professional facade. But Clara had gotten under Philippa’s skin in a way that no one else had in all the years Philippa had been doing this, bright and lively and companionable even at her most irritating, and without her in it Philippa’s life seemed emptier and lonelier.

Sitwell took over as Clara’s handler, for the time being; Philippa didn’t think she could stand Clara’s impertinent drawl in her ear, or worse, hearing her sound cool and impersonal while Philippa’s heart bled. Philippa avoided contact with Hawkeye as best she could, even as she ached at the loss, but sometimes she passed Clara in the hallway or saw her in the cafeteria, and every time she did, Philippa was harshly reminded of what the two of them had had together and the fact that it was now gone.

It didn’t show, of course: Philippa’s reputation was based not just on her skills and adaptability, but on her unflappability and the fact that she never lost her cool. So she kept up the impassive, bland mask and went on with life as usual during the day, and at night went home to eat dinner and watch trashy reality TV alone. 

As time passed Philippa got used to it all again, and the sight of Clara somewhere unexpected stopped hurting as much as it used to. Philippa took back her role as Hawkeye’s handler, much to Sitwell’s relief. Things didn’t go back to the way they were before: Clara looked awkward and uncomfortable in Philippa’s presence, and on missions she was subdued, keeping her wit and observations to herself on comms, and following Philippa’s orders without any hint of anything inappropriate.

Life went on, and Philippa told herself that things were fine.

“You know, you used to smile more,” Sitwell told her apropos of nothing one day, when he dropped by to give Philippa a mission report she’d requested.

Philippa tilted her head back and smiled her trademark bland ‘nothing to see here’ smile that gave away absolutely nothing.

“Really?”

Sitwell flinched slightly in alarm, having worked with Philippa for years, and recognising her seemingly-innocuous danger signals for what they really were.

“Jesus, don’t shoot me,” he pleaded hurriedly, and left Philippa’s office hastily before she could do something like taze him or maybe shoot him in the leg.

Philippa went back to reading the latest intel on the Ten Rings, and if her expression was a little more brittle than usual, well, there was no one there to see it.

* * *

It took a year, but by Puente Antiguo Philippa and Clara were approaching their old handler-asset relationship, and had started to fall into the old, familiar banter and camaraderie on ops.

Philippa wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about it. It was nice, in a way, to have that old sense of companionship back, but at the same time it sometimes felt shaky and strained, and highlighted how much had passed between the two of them.

Philippa was surveying the strange artefact that had brought everyone out here, the construction of a temporary base and containment facility already well under way, when Clara joined her.

“They were telling me no one seems able to lift this thing,” Clara commented, staring in open speculation at the mysterious object. It resembled nothing so much as a large, archaic hammer.

“Apparently,” Philippa confirmed.

“Huh. Did you try?”

Philippa had not tried. She had already seen multiple efforts, and had no desire to embarrass herself by attempting it. If no one else had been able to lift the hammer, she saw no reason why she would be able to.

“Mind if I have a go?” Clara’s speculative look had segued into open curiosity.

Philippa knew that she should probably say no, but she didn’t see the harm. Not when most of the town had already done so with no apparent ill-effects.

“As long as you bear in mind that we have no idea what this thing does, or what effects it might have.”

Clara considered this for a second, then shrugged.

“Eh, what the hell.” 

Philippa watched indulgently as Clara approached the hammer purposefully, and bent and tried to lift it. As Philippa expected, the object remained where it was. Clara frowned, and put more effort into it. To Philippa’s mild amusement, she progressed into frustrated tugging and swearing before she admitted defeat.

“I guess I can’t lift it, either,” Clara observed, appearing faintly disgruntled, but resigned to the fact.

Clara’s hair was blowing in the hot desert breeze, the sun behind her outlining her in a golden halo of light. Philippa felt her mouth go dry, and was glad she was wearing sunglasses that hid the expression in her eyes.

“Seriously, though,” Clara commented, oblivious to Philippa’s moment of wistfulness, “it’s a giant stone hammer in the desert that fell out of the sky, what the fuck, Coulson?”

Philippa shrugged casually. 

“The experts think it might be alien, but we don’t know for sure.”

“Aliens? Seriously? Shit, my life is weird.” Clara surveyed Philippa. “Also, aren’t you hot in that suit?”

Philippa’s lips quirked, and she gave into the temptation to fall into their old pattern of banter. Things weren’t quite like they had been before she and Clara had started dating and then crashed and burned, but they were getting there.

“I like to think I’m hot in everything.”

Clara snorted and rolled her eyes.

“Funny, ma’am. Whatever. I’m going to go pick a decent room for us to bunk down in before the guys call dibs on all the good rooms.”

“Pull rank if you need to,” said Philippa. “I want to sleep somewhere with decent sheets and the minimum number of cockroaches.”

“Gotcha,” Clara agreed cheerfully, and went striding off across the sand to where SHIELD was setting up portable barracks for the agents. Philippa watched her go, a tall, slim figure in a SHIELD t-shirt and combat boots, and felt her heart ache.

She turned away, and headed for the trailers where the scientists had set up shop, to find out if they’d acquired any new significant data on the hammer.

* * *

“Barton? Talk to me,” Philippa said, as a strapping blonde man threw her people around like they were cheap rent-a-cops instead of seasoned SHIELD personnel. He was tall and blonde and bearded, either in his late twenties or early thirties, and he was determined to get to the extraterrestrial artefact.

“Want me to slow him down, ma’am?” Clara asked immediately. “Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?”

“I’ll let you know,” Clara replied dryly, watching the intruder’s progress.

He was a reasonably good fighter, and what he lacked in finesse he made up for in brute strength. He seemed oddly cheerful about the whole thing as he powered his way through everything Philippa threw at him, determined to get to the facility housing the hammer.

In spite of herself, she was intrigued, and a little impressed.

“You better call it, Coulson, because I’m starting to root for this guy,” Clara warned in her ear, but Philippa ignored her, and waited to see what happened next.

As she watched, the man turned, and tore hole in the wall of plastic sheeting that separated him from the hammer.

Philippa knew that she should call it, tell Clara to take the shot, but…

Something about the situation resonated with the stories she’d heard as a little girl, and set her instincts prickling. A strange presumably-extraterrestrial hammer with the inscription _‘whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor’_ had crashed in the desert, leaving indecipherable, inexplicable markings behind, and now a strange man was powering through all the SHIELD agents she threw at him to reach the peculiar artefact.

Philippa very much wanted to know what would happen when he did.

As he approached the hammer his face lit up with satisfaction, and – anticipation? Triumph? Philippa couldn’t quite tell from where she stood.

“Last chance, ma’am,” said Clara.

“Wait, I want to see this.”

Philippa kept watching as the man took hold of the hammer, and…

…nothing.

His face changed, and he pulled at the hammer fruitlessly, his expression one of desperation. Finally he let go, staring at his hands as though they had betrayed him, before looking blindly up at the sky with an expression of terrible grief.

Letting out an agonised scream the man fell to his knees, head bowed, and stayed there.

Philippa waited a moment, feeling disappointed and oddly sympathetic, before raising her walkie-talking to her mouth.

“All right, show’s over. Ground units, move in.”

* * *

“What did you think was going to happen?” Clara asked later, when the saga of Thor was over, as the two of them sat outside the barracks holding a cup of cocoa and a cup of instant coffee respectively.

Philippa shrugged, looking up at the sky and wondering what else was out there. It wasn’t an entirely pleasant feeling, knowing that Earth wasn’t alone. Especially when extraterrestrial visitors brought things that even SHIELD weren’t really equipped to deal with. They’d been lucky today, when Thor had defeated the Destroyer.

“It was the pattern,” she said, knowing that Clara would understand what she meant. “I thought he’d be able to lift it. And he did, eventually,” she added, smiling to herself. “He just had to find himself first.”

“Ugh, this isn’t a Disney movie,” Clara complained, nudging Philippa’s shoulder. “Also, while I’ll the big dude was pretty cool, I’m kind of wary about aliens, now. You think we’re going to get more like those guys?”

Philippa was silent for a moment.

“Yes,” she said softly. “And I doubt most of them will be as friendly as Thor.”

* * *

Several months later, she was proven right when Loki attacked the Project Pegasus base and stole the Tesseract.

* * *

Philippa didn’t see Fury until everyone who’d survived the collapse of the Project Pegasus base had reconvened on the Helicarrier. She joined Hill and Fury on their way to the bridge, as agents came and went with notifications and orders, Fury already planning their next move.

Philippa had been monitoring the personnel as they checked in – SHIELD wouldn’t know exactly who hadn’t survived, or how many casualties there were, for a while – and there were three names whose absence leapt out at her: Martins, Selvig, and Barton, who had all been assigned to the Tesseract room at the time of the attack.

As Philippa drew level with the director and his deputy, Hill noticed her presence, and a look of pity briefly crossed her face. Philippa’s unease tightened in her gut.

“Sir, I’ll go check that everything’s in order,” Hill said to Fury, and at his nod strode off down a different hallway.

“Coulson,” Fury acknowledged without breaking his stride. “I assume you’re here for a reason.” _When you’re supposed to be elsewhere,_ his tone said.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been keeping track of personnel as they check in, and I noticed some conspicuous absences.” Philippa knew how much she was giving away by asking the question, but she had to know. “Where’s Barton?”

Fury’s eyes swung her way, filling with comprehension, and grim sadness.

“I’m afraid that Barton was compromised, Coulson,” he said, with unexpected kindness. “The hostile has her.”

Philippa had expected something of the sort, but it still hit her like a blow to the chest. She fought her keep her expression from changing, but from the sympathy in Fury’s eyes she didn’t quite manage it.

“I see,” she said automatically, the words coming from a distance. Inside, she was still reeling.

“I’m going to need you on this one, Coulson,” Fury said, searching her face with his one eye. “I’m going to need you to be focused, and dealing with this hostile and whatever he’s planning takes priority, even over Barton. Can you do that?”

Philippa’s eyes shut, and she focused on isolating all the emotions that would form a distraction, and packed them away for later. When she was done, it still hurt, but her mind was clear.

She opened her eyes, and breathed out, Agent Coulson to the core.

“Yes, sir.”

Fury gripped her shoulder for a moment, before letting go.

“Good to know. I’m counting on you, Coulson.” When he next spoke, his voice was businesslike again. “Be in the War Room in fifteen. We need to discuss this clusterfuck and work out what the hell we do now.”

“Yes, sir,” was all Philippa said.

Fifteen minutes later found Philippa in the War Room, along with Fury, Hill, and a number of senior agents who needed to be briefed on the situation. Fury explained that the hostile who had attacked the base had been identified as Loki, the alien responsible for sending the Destroyer to New Mexico the previous year.

“Loki took Barton, Martins, and Selvig, at the least,” Fury announced, and Philippa wanted to punch him for it, irrational as the reaction was. Instead, she tried to put her feelings aside and hold onto a semblance of her usual calm as Fury outlined the fucking shitstorm that had gone down with Project Pegasus, listening with half an ear for information she didn’t already know, even as her thoughts turned inwards.

They’d lost the Tesseract to an unknown hostile who’d used advanced weaponry beyond their understanding to compromise Clara and others, caused a death toll that was still being determined, and in the process SHIELD had lost their primary base. None of them knew the extent of the hostile’s capabilities, or what his plans were. If asked, Philippa would readily admit that they were probably fucked.

That didn’t mean she didn’t intend to _do_ something about it anyway, though.

“Coulson.” Philippa straightened and tuned back in as Fury spoke her name. “I want you to call in the Widow.”

Natasha. God, her presence would be a relief on this.

“On it, boss,” Philippa nodded, and left the room to make the arrangements.

* * *

“ _Da?_ ” asked the thug who answered the phone.

“Put the woman on the phone,” Philippa instructed. There was a moment’s pause, and then a different man spoke into the phone, in Russian.

“ _You listen carefully_ ,” the man began, but Philippa had neither the time nor patience for this bullshit. She cut him off.

“You’re at 114 Solensky Plaza, third floor.” Philippa didn’t mince matters. “We have an F22 exactly eight miles out. Put the woman on the phone or I’ll blow up the block before you can make the lobby.”

There was another pause. Philippa heard the clunks and sounds of shifting fabric that indicated that the phone was being moved, and then light breathing. 

“We need you to come in,” she told Natasha.

“ _Are you kidding? I’m working_ ,” Natashsa complained, with emphasis.

“This takes precedence.”

“ _I’m in the middle of an interrogation. This moron is giving me everything_.” Natasha was silent for a beat, and Philippa could imagine the face she was making, complete with raised eyebrows. When she wanted to, Natasha had a very expressive face. “ _Look, you can’t pull me out of this right now_.”

“Natasha.” Philippa heard the strain in her own voice, the treacherous waver in it, despite her efforts to keep her voice even. A stranger wouldn’t have noticed it, but to Natasha, it would be an obvious red flag. “Barton’s been compromised.”

There was a heavy pause. Philippa could almost hear Natasha’s priorities shifting.

“ _Let me put you on hold_ ,” she said finally.

What followed were the sounds of three men having their asses kicked by a small woman tied to a chair. Philippa waited patiently for the fight to finish. In its own way, the sounds of violence drifting down the phone were vaguely soothing, Philippa thought. The fact that at least Natasha got to beat the shit out of someone right now made Philippa feel a little better about the fact that she couldn’t.

“ _Where’s Barton now?_ ”

“We don’t know.”

“ _But she’s alive_.” The edge in her voice was as close as Natasha would willingly come to worry.

“We think so,” Philippa agreed; it stood to reason that for whatever purpose Loki had chosen to take Barton and the others, he still needed them. To Philippa, it was as comforting as it was concerning. “I’ll brief you on everything when you get back, but first we need you to talk to the Big Guy.”

“ _Coulson, you know that Stark trusts me about as far as he can throw me_.” There was a smile in Natasha’s voice. That was Natasha for you; she could compartmentalise better than anyone, and she knew there was no point in worrying about Clara while there were things to be done.

“Oh, I’ve got Stark.” Philippa allowed herself a slight smirk. “You get the Big Guy.”

There was a much longer pause.

“ _Bozhe moy_ ,” Natasha said finally. Philippa sympathised, she truly did, but everyone was being asked to do things that put them at the edge of their limits, right now, and Natasha was no different. She was an asset to be put to use in the way that was most valuable, like everyone else. Right now, they couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

“The extraction point is the same as originally planned,” Philippa went on, “but we’ll be extracting you early. Be there in an hour.”

“ _Fine. Coulson?_ ” Natasha added.

“Natasha?”

“ _She’ll be fine_.” With that, Natasha hung up the phone.

Philippa followed suit, staring at her phone, and wondered how Natasha had known, half a world away, exactly what Philippa most needed to hear.

“ _Spasibo,_ ” she murmured, and went to see what Fury needed next.

* * *

Even under the current circumstances, with everything shot to hell, Philippa was thrilled to be _actually talking_ to _Captain America._ For once in her life, she was feeling overwhelmed, and trying not to show it.

She might not be doing so well at that. 

Captain America – Rogers – looked puzzled at her thoughtless reference to Stephen Hawking, and Philippa realised that of course, Hawking was after his time.

“He’s like a smart person,” Philippa said in explanation, too flustered to think of _‘like Einstein’_ or _‘like Marie Curie,’_ or really any reasonable comparison that didn’t make her sound like an idiot. 

Captain Rogers had no reply to this.

“I sort of met you,” said Philippa. “I mean, I watched you while you were sleeping. I mean,” Philippa corrected herself a second time, sadly aware that she was fucking this up nicely and that… Natasha ( _Clara,_ her mind corrected involuntarily, and Philippa viciously repressed the thought) would never let her live it down, “I was, I was present while you were unconscious from the ice. You know, it’s really, it’s just a… just a huge honour to have you on board.”

Captain Rogers stared at her blankly, and Philippa suddenly wondered what he thought of her, a middle-aged, ordinary-looking woman in a suit gushing awkwardly at him. The thought was a little embarrassing.

“Well, I hope I’m the man for the job,” Captain Rogers said gamely, and Philippa appreciated the fact that he didn’t act like she was behaving like an air-headed, star-struck moron. 

Gentlemanly, she thought. The word described him perfectly.

“Oh, you are,” Philippa assured him sincerely. “Uh… we’ve made some modifications to the uniform. I had a little design input,” she said modestly, unable to help it. He was her _childhood hero,_ for Christ’s sake. She could be allowed to be less than suave, just this once.

“The uniform?” Captain Rogers blinked in surprise. “Aren’t the stars and stripes a little… old-fashioned?”

Philippa paused to take another look at him. He looked polite and attentive, and a little lost, and God, so _young._ It was hard to remember, sometimes, that for all the time that had passed, Captain Rogers hadn’t actually lived any of it. 

Philippa gave him her kindest smile.

“With everything that's happening,” she informed him gently, “the things that are about to come to light… people might just need a little old-fashioned.”

* * *

Philippa got through everything that was thrown at her as best she could, ignoring her suppressed grief and worry to focus on tasks and logistics.

She watched with grim dismay as the Avengers bickered and sniped at each other, rubbing against each others’ jagged edges like puzzle pieces that didn’t fit together. They were both too similar and dissimilar at the same time, a desperate group of unstable individuals with nothing in common to tie them together. The world was in danger of ending, but that wasn’t enough to unite them, each of them caught up in their own emotions and insecurities and petty troubles, unable to put them aside to focus on the larger picture as Philippa was doing.

The Avengers were going to fail, unless they were given something that all of them had in common and could understand, that put them on an equal footing with each other. Otherwise, it was all going to end in disaster.

Philippa’s prediction looked like it was coming true when the Helicarrier came under attack. SHIELD personnel were scattered, the Hulk was rampaging somewhere on the ship, and even thought Philippa was as focused as ever, part of her mind kept repeating, _Clara is here._

Philippa knew that Natasha would go after Clara the first chance she got. Philippa desperately wanted to do the same, but as much as she might resent it, she had other priorities right now, and she was better off leaving Clara to Natasha anyway: her presence would only get in the way.

Instead, Philippa headed for the vault where the Phase Two weapon prototypes were stored. Loki had not only foreseen what was coming – including the Hulk’s emergence – but presumably planned it. Philippa didn’t know exactly what was coming next, but it was safe to say that whatever it was, Loki was relying on the chaos and controlled panic that filled the ship.

Hill was responsible for monitoring the progress of the Phase Two weapons, not Philippa, but Philippa was peripherally aware of the project all the same, even if she didn’t have details on the weapons themselves. She selected one that had sounded promising when Hill had mentioned it, an enormous gun-shaped energy weapon named P2-345, and went after Loki.

She arrived at the Hulk containment unit (Loki was on the outside, Thor trapped inside it) just in time to hear Loki walk over to the unit’s controls and say to a trapped Thor, “Humans think us immortal. Shall we test that?”

One of Loki’s goons was standing watching, and it was easy enough for Philippa to silently walk up behind him and hit him hard. He made a pained noise as he went down, and both Loki and Thor turned to look.

Philippa readied the gun.

“Move away, please,” she told Loki. Loki slowly backed away from the controls, without looking away from Philippa.

“You like this?” Philippa hefted the gun a little. Loki watched her warily, trying to gauge what kind of threat she represented. On the outside Philippa was calm enough, but on the inside, whether Loki could tell or not, she was _angry._ “We started working on the prototype after you sent the Destroyer.” She gave a tiny shrug. “Even I don’t know what it does.” She pressed the button to initialise it, and the gun began powering up. “Do you want to find out?”

The next instant Philippa’s world exploded in blinding agony. She heard Thor’s agonised roar of “ _NOOOOOOOOO!_ ” Sliding to the floor as her body went limp, Philippa realised that something had stabbed her through the back. Loki walked around her towards Thor, paying Philippa no more attention.

The world was hazy around Philippa, and she could no longer feel her legs properly, but she kept her eyes trained on Loki as best she could. Her hands still held the experimental weapon, and she tightened her grip on it.

As Philippa watched, Loki opened the hatch under the Hulk containment unit and ejected the unit with his brother still inside. As he started to walk away, Phil managed to breathe in deeply enough to say, “You’re going to lose.” 

Loki paused, and turned to regard her. His expression was unreadable.

“Am I.”

“It’s in your nature,” Philippa told him quietly. She could feel herself bleeding out, and knew she didn’t have much time left. Minutes, if that much. The least she wanted to do was _get_ this son of a bitch before

Loki smiled patronisingly.

“Your heroes are scattered,” he said, walking closer, just as Philippa had hoped, “your floating fortress falls through the sky: where _is_ my disadvantage?”

Philippa’s eyes never left his.

“You lack conviction,” she said, her own voice full of surety, and just for a moment Loki looked uncertain. _Closer,_ Philippa thought, feeling a quiet sense of triumph as Loki continued to move, almost in range.

“I don’t think _I_ –” Loki began, and stepped directly in front of the gun’s barrel. Philippa fired, and watched Loki blown back through the wall behind him.

“So that’s what it does,” Philippa said to herself.

It was getting harder and harder to focus, but she kept her eyes open with a will. She needed to hold on as long as possible. 

She wondered if Natasha had found Clara yet. She hoped so. She hoped everything turned out alright, even if she wasn’t going ot be there to see it.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed before Fury knelt in front of her, and gently removed the Phase Two prototype from her lap.

“Sorry boss,” Philippa said wearily. “The guy rabbited.” Her gaze wandered.

“Just stay awake,” Fury ordered, turning her head and staring into her eyes. Philippa obediently tried to focus on him, but her vision was blurred. 

Philippa gave him a faint smile. She could feel the blood bubbling up as she spoke. Breathing took more and more effort.

“I’m clocking out here.”

“Not an option,” Fury insisted.

“It’s okay, boss.” Philippa’s smile started to slip away as her vision darkened at the edges. She could feel her grip on consciousness slipping away. “This was never going to work,” breathe, the darkness closing in, “if they didn’t have something,” try to breathe, fail, “to…” 

Darkness.

* * *

Philippa had vague memories of urgent voices and blurred impressions of the world around her, but it was a while before she actually woke properly.

When Philippa finally surfaced long enough to process her surroundings, she found herself in a hospital bed in medical. Clara was sitting in a chair next to the bed, half-asleep.

Philippa stared at her, sitting whole and apparently unharmed. _Thank God,_ she thought fervently. _Thank God._

After a moment Clara stirred and glanced in Philippa’s direction, and promptly did a double-take to find Philippa watching her.

“ _Phil,_ ” she breathed, immediately leaning forward to take Philippa’s hand, relief and thankfulness blooming in her expression. Philippa blinked slowly.

“Jesus, Phil.” Clara’s voice was thick with unshed tears, and her eyes were wet. “We thought you’d clocked out on us.”

Philippa slowly blinked some more, her brain working through that. It was like wading through molasses. Mostly all she could think about was the fact that Clara hadn’t called her Phil since Philippa had caught her with Agent Jones. But Clara was clutching her hand tightly and looking at Philippa like she was everything, so Philippa gave up trying to figure out what was going on and decided to just enjoy Clara’s presence.

She hadn’t forgotten Loki, though, and responded to Clara’s remark.

“Don’t put up with anyone’s tantrums,” Philippa said, although it came out rather slurred. Clara laughed wetly. Philippa gazed at her, and was overcome by a helpless wave of love and affection.

Even in her drugged state she knew better than to speak it aloud.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said instead. “I was worried about you.”

Clara smiled at Philippa, a wry twist to her mouth that Philippa couldn’t interpret right now.

“Yeah,” was all she said. “Me too. About you, I mean.”

She stroked Philippa’s hair, a tender gesture that made Philippa close her eyes, sleepy and distantly sore and wanting Clara to stay with her like this forever.

“You should get some sleep, boss,” she heard Clara say. She was still holding Philippa’s hand and didn’t seem like she was preparing to let go any time soon, as Philippa kept her eyes shut and let sleep take her.

* * *

While Philippa was recovering in medical, Clara was in to visit her almost every day. Sometimes she brought Natasha with her, but mostly it was just Clara, by herself. There were dark circles under her eyes, and if she was able to visit every day that meant she was probably suspended from duty for either disciplinary or medical reasons, but Clara grinned and chattered on and caught Philippa up on all the latest gossip as though nothing was wrong. 

Philippa appreciated Clara’s visits more than she could say. It wasn’t quite true to say she yearned for activity; right now, she didn’t feel up to doing anything much. She _was_ bored, however, and looked forward to Clara dropping by as the one bright spot in her day. She didn’t quite know _why_ Clara came to see her every day, but intuition told her not to ask, fearful of disrupting whatever was going on.

Despite being badly injured and in pain, for the first time in a long time, Philippa was happy. She had missed Clara terribly after their break-up, and even though that ship had sailed, having Clara around – being treated like she mattered, and feeling their old rapport become as strong as ever – made something in Philippa’s chest loosen. 

Sometimes she was snappish or cantankerous, irritated by her condition or exhausted by the constant pain and effort it took to breathe, but Clara took her bad moods in stride, and sometimes managed to make Philippa smile anyway. Other times, just having Clara there was enough to cheer her up, and Clara’s awful jokes and inappropriate comments would have been enough to make her laugh if Philippa hadn’t known how much laughing would hurt. 

One day Clara brought in a large bouquet of flowers, complaining that the sterility of Philippa’s room made her feel depressed, and she didn’t even have to live here. Philippa thanked her. The flowers were bright and colourful, in shades of yellow and purple and red and orange, and couldn’t be more different from the endless whiteness that surrounded Philippa 24/7.

Philippa didn’t tell Clara, but every time she looked at the flowers, the reminder of Clara’s care and attention made her smile in contentment.

* * *

When the time came for Philippa to finally be released from SHIELD’s medical wing, she wasn’t pleased to discover that the Avengers had their own plans for her convalescence 

“I can take care of myself,” Philippa said tightly.

“Sure you can,” Clara replied breezily, not even bothering to pretend she meant it, and Philippa glared at her.

All the time she’d spent in the medical wing had been bad enough, but now Clara and Natasha were trying to pester her into moving into Stark Tower where she could be watched and fussed over at every hour of the day and night. Apparently Pepper had insisted, Tony had agreed happily enough, and everyone else thought it was a fine idea.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Phil, your apartment building has stairs,” Natasha pointed out flatly, her voice vaguely amused. “You’re in a wheelchair. You don’t need to be a genius to put the two together and work out you have a problem.” 

Philippa glared sullenly.

“I just want to go _home_ ,” she said simply, letting all her frustration spill into her voice.

Natasha looked unmoved – she was excellent when someone was an invalid, because she was sensible and pitiless and utterly immune to sympathy, which Philippa mostly found commendable, except for those occasions when she was the invalid in question – but Clara’s face softened.

“I get that this sucks for you,” she said kindly. “I get it, okay? But you need this right now, whether you like it or not, so you’ve got to suck it up and deal.”

Philippa knew she was right, but that didn’t mean she liked it.

“Has anyone checked my apartment?” she asked, and refused to admit to herself that she sounded fretful and petulant. “Someone’s going to need to take my trash out before it develops sentience, and check on my cactus.”

Clara froze in surprise.

“Wait,” she said disbelievingly. “My cactus? The one I gave you?” She stared. “I figured you would have, I don’t know, got rid of it, or something.”

“It’s a living thing,” Philippa reprimanded curtly. She didn’t confess that for the first week after they broke up she’d viciously overwatered it in the hope it would drown. She’d felt bad about it afterwards though, and was glad that the plant was so resilient. For a small prickly thing that only flowered occasionally, Philippa was weirdly fond of it.

“We will take care of the plant and anything else that needs doing,” Natasha bargained, “if you agree to move into Stark Tower and receive the care you need.”

Philippa considered her options. She didn’t really have any.

“Fine,” she conceded with bad grace.

She felt better about the situation when Pepper greeted her the moment she rolled out of the elevator.

“Philippa!” Pepper looked genuinely pleased and relieved to see her, and Philippa felt some of her uncharacteristic grumpiness disappearing. “It’s so good to see you!”

Philippa managed a smile.

“It’s good to be here.”

“She says that now,” Clara interjected. “She complained the entire way over here, bitching about how everyone was wrapping her in cotton wool.”

Philippa scowled at Clara, and was gratified to see Natasha pinch her, eliciting a yelp.

“Dammit, Tasha!” Clara rubbed the sore spot on her arm irritably.

Philippa went back to smiling at Pepper. Pepper smiled back, ignoring the byplay between Natasha and Clara with the vaguely-amused air of someone inured to far worse.

“I was so glad to hear that you were okay,” Pepper told Philippa genuinely. “I know it must be annoying to have everyone hovering over you, but we’re just glad that you’re still here. We thought you were dead for a while, you know.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

Pepper patted Philippa’s shoulder, her expression soft.

“Let’s get you settled in,” was all she said. 

* * *

It was another few months before Philippa was allowed to return to work, even on light duties. When she did, she joined Sitwell and Hollins as the Avengers handlers. The Avengers shouldn’t have needed three handlers, but Philippa hadn’t been cleared to leave headquarters on missions yet, which meant that while she was able to run things remotely it was still necessary to have a senior agent on the ground, and before Philippa had returned to work the Avengers had apparently proved themselves too difficult for a single agent to handle, hence the multiple handlers.

“I could deal with the others, even Barton, if it weren’t for fucking Stark,” Sitwell complained miserably, when he and Philippa were catching up over lunch in the cafeteria. “I hate him. You know how he is.”

“I know,” Philippa confirmed. She was actually feeling mildly amused at Sitwell’s evident gloom.

“Hey,” a new voice announced, and Clara dropped into the empty seat next to Philippa. “What’s up?”

“Jasper hates Tony Stark,” Philippa told her.

Clara snickered.

“Yeah, well, I’m not surprised.”

“How are you so calm when you deal with him?” Sitwell wanted to know. “I’m there like, ten minutes, and I feel like I’m going to pop a vein right here.” He tapped his temple.

“Practice, will, and my natural disposition,” Philippa replied. “Also, against all expectations, he’s decided he likes me, which makes things easier.”

Sitwell muttered darkly under his breath. 

“And the others are fairly well-behaved,” Philippa went on.

“Except her.” Sitwell stabbed his fork in Clara’s direction. She smirked proudly at him, as though being a pain in the ass was some kind of accomplishment.

_ ‘She behaves reasonably well for me,’  _ Philippa didn’t say. 

“I actually don’t mind babysitting them,” she said instead.

Sitwell snorted.

“You actually enjoy this, don’t you?”

Philippa smiled.

“Don’t ever tell.”

* * *

The downside of being the Avengers’ senior handler, however, was that when one of them decided to do something particularly stupid, and regrettably public, it was up to Philippa to manage the situation. 

“What were you _thinking?!_ ” Philippa bit out. “Did you completely lose what little sense you had?” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this furious.

“Do we really need to go over this?” Clara asked, looking bruised and sullen. “Stark and Cap already ripped me a new one, okay.”

“Yes, Barton, we _do_ need to go over this.” Philippa reined in her temper, and did her best to pull together her usual composure. When she next spoke, her voice came out crisp and cold. “You are an _Avenger_ , Barton, and you might have forgotten, that means something. Among other things, it means that I should not walk into my office in the morning to find a report detailing how you were arrested because you broke into a popular stripclub, terrified its patrons, beat up its staff and _stole a safe._ Maybe you can see how this conflicts with your role as protector of the people and upholder of justice.”

“They were gangsters!” Clara began to protest. “And the safe–”

“Allow me to express how much I _do not care._ ” Philippa’s gaze locked onto Clara’s with the intensity and focus of a laser beam. Clara recoiled slightly. “You are currently suspended from both the Avengers and SHIELD, for a period f time that is yet to be determined. Be grateful that you haven’t been cut loose. The main reason Fury was convinced to keep you was that he was convinced by the argument that if we let you go, you’d no doubt go onto pull even stupider stunts that would tarnish the Avengers’ reputation even further.”

Philippa watched as Clara wilted.

“She told me she was in trouble,” Clara muttered, sounding defeated. “That the stuff in the safe had been stolen from her in the first place. I was trying to help.”

“Go home, Barton,” Philippa said with finality. “Try and keep your pants on long enough not to fall victim to the first pretty face who offers you a dubious sob story.”

Clara flushed, and slunk out of Philippa’s office, limping.

Philippa sat down in her chair, and gave a long, tired sigh.

She’d like to say that she couldn’t believe that Clara would be that stupid, but she could. Clara had a life-long history of making bad choices and not thinking things through.

It probably said something terrible about Philippa that even when she most wanted to strangle Clara, she still had feelings for her, even now.

When Natasha got back from tracking down Clara’s enterprising partner-in-crime, Philippa planned on taking her out for a long, alcoholic lunch, the rest of her paperwork be damned. It wasn’t like it was going anywhere, and Philippa needed time out and a chance to vent before she punched someone. No doubt Natasha would be feeling much the same, so their interests coincided nicely.

Philippa sighed again. Life would be much easier if she could get over Clara, but if it hadn’t happened by now, it probably wouldn’t happen at all.

When Philippa later heard that Jessica Drew had left Clara over the whole screw-up with the red-headed femme fatale, she couldn’t help feeling a small amount of spiteful satisfaction. Ms Drew was an exemplary young woman and hadn’t deserved the way Clara had treated her any more than Philippa had, but the feeling was there anyway. Somehow it made things easier, knowing that Clara’s current partner had met with exactly the same treatment and it wasn’t just Philippa.

Maybe that was petty, and Philippa shouldn’t even have cared after this long, but that was the way it was, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

* * *

Two weeks later, Clara sidled into Philippa’s office and shut the door behind her. Philippa blinked as she got a look at Clara’s face, and wondered what was wrong.

“Agent Barton?”

“Can we talk?” Clara asked hesitantly. “I have – some things I want to say to you, which are probably really overdue, and. Uh. It’s important. Also, personal. I don’t need you to say anything, just… just to listen. If that’s okay.” 

Philippa felt her heart beating faster. Clara’s expression was somewhere between miserable and terrified and determined, as though she had screwed all her courage to the sticking point just to tell Philippa that much. The look on her face and the fact that whatever they were going to talk about was personal – highly personal, from the looks of it – could mean only one thing.

Philippa gave a Clara a long look, masking her own sense of trepidation (and, in spite of everything, _hope_ ), and nodded slowly.

Clara took a deep breath, and started to speak.

“I fucked up,” said Clara, in a small voice. “The moment you turned and walked out of there I knew I’d blown it, big time. Jones was just a stupid, spur-of-the-moment thing, I never really wanted him. But you – Agent Coulson, with your endless calm and deadpan sense of humour, the you I caught dancing in your office with Natasha, who’s addicted to those packets of mini doughnuts and somehow managed to eat them without getting covered in powdered sugar – I wanted that more than anything, and I realised that I’d just screwed up my one chance with you for a makeout that meant nothing. Natasha kicked my ass for it, but not half as hard as I was kicking myself for making you leave.”

Clara paused to take a deep breath. Philippa had no idea how to respond. She stayed silent.

“I knew it was my own stupid fault, so I shut up and didn’t – I left you alone and didn’t try to get you back, because I knew I’d only make things worse. But then – the thing with Loki happened, and – when I heard about you, when Natasha told me you’d been killed on the Helicarrier, I felt–” Clara’s voice went wavery. “I felt like someone had reached into my chest and pulled my heart out, like nothing else mattered. When I found out you were still alive it was like – like fucking rainbows and unicorns, Phil. You were in a coma and fuck knew how you were going to end up, but just knowing that you _weren’t dead_ – I felt like I could breathe again for the first time in weeks. I was just so grateful that you were alive.” 

Clara scrubbed a hand through her hair, looking like it hurt just to get the words out. But her expression was also earnest, in a way that Philippa had rarely seen before. 

“I tried with Jess, but it didn’t really work out, because the only person I really gave a damn about was you. I know you probably don’t want to get back together with me, and I can’t blame you for that, but I have been – I have been in love with you for so long and that’s not going to change, and I thought, you deserved to know that. So – this is me telling you that if you could take me back, I would be so fucking grateful, and I know that I’ll probably fuck everything up because that’s what I do, but not – not like I did last time. And whether you do want to give it another go, or not, that doesn’t change how I feel about you. Yeah.” Clara came to a sudden stop, and shuffled awkwardly, unable to meet Philippa’s eyes, a deep blush blooming on her cheeks.

Philippa gazed at Clara for a moment, trying to come to grips with Clara’s heartfelt confession.

She knew that she ought to say no. The safest thing would certainly be to say no: Clara had already hurt her once. But Philippa was forty-eight years old and lonely, and while she had her self-respect, she’d never possessed that self-spiting sense of pride that some women did. Philippa had never been pretty enough to be proud. Anything she spurned wasn’t likely to come back.

Philippa really ought to say no, but in all this time, she’d never been able to get past Clara Barton. And she wasn’t proud.

She narrowed her eyes at Clara, and her voice when she spoke was cold and hard.

“You ever screw around on me, you ever fool around with anyone else, that’s it, I’m done. We’re done. And I don’t just mean as partners – you and me in any capacity. I will have nothing to do with you, ever. You’ve already done it to me once, and if you do it again, I will wash my hands of you completely. So you’d better be sure, Barton, because I am dead serious on this.”

Clara’s mouth was hanging open, and her eyes were wide. Her jaw snapped shut, and she swallowed.

“That’s… you’ve made yourself clear, boss. Philippa.” She swallowed again. “And I am. Serious, I mean.”

“Right.” Philippa just breathed for a minute. “Come here.”

Looking half-hopeful, half like she expected to be kicked, Clara edged around the desk, her body language full of uncertainty.

Philippa reached out and pulled Clara down into her lap, wincing slightly as the scarring across her back and chest tugged warningly, and leaned in to capture Clara’s mouth in a kiss. Clara responded with enthusiasm, although she was careful not to aggravate Philippa’s souvenir from Loki.

After a minute or so Philippa broke it off to take a breathe, Clara doing the same.

“We’ll be okay,” said Philippa. She told herself that she could believe it. “We’re going to be okay.”

Clara laughed softly and rested her forehead against Philippa’s, eyes closing in an expression of heartfelt happiness, and Philippa decided that yes, whatever else had happened… she could.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic was very frustrating, but I got it done. :D Notes time!
> 
> You know the scene where Philippa is dancing in her office? Some swing dances can be done solo. [The Lindy Hop](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAAAV7BB1HU) (aka the Jitterbug), for example, can be done [solo](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-QvZ4BhoVY). The songs Natasha played were _Roll the Boogie_ by Lavay Smith and the Red Hot Skillet Lickers (a current swing music group) and _T'ain't What You Do_ by Jimmie Lunceford.
> 
> [This](http://www.naturehills.com/perennials/blue-or-purple-flowering-perennials/geranium-dragon-heart) is a dragonheart geranium. It is very purple. You can see photos of oleander and mala mujer [here](http://www.popularmechanics.com/home/improvement/lawn-garden/4331026).
> 
> It's worth noting that Agent Coulson's Theme from _A Funny Thing Happened On the Way To Thor's Hammer_ is called 'Marvel Swing,' and you can listen to it in its entirety [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=obIWEtHaoGg&feature=share&list=PL42B133F1FF519756). Yes, I know it sounds a lot like _Sing, Sing, Sing._ It's a little more modern than that, though. Also, a hella lot shorter.
> 
> Finally, I did a [playlist](http://aceofannwn.livejournal.com/100692.html) for this fic when it got too frustrating. Also, you can find my list of my favourite female!Coulson fics [here](http://aceofannwn.livejournal.com/96153.html).


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